


Dear my beloved daughter

by Psymei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psymei/pseuds/Psymei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter written by a Muggleborns mother to her daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear my beloved daughter

**Author's Note:**

> Read a comment on a post, decided to write this to warm up for my daily Nanowrimo and then decided to post it on here because why not? Probably a few mistakes because I decided to post before I talked myself out of it, which generally takes about ten seconds.

Dear my beloved daughter,

The first time I saw you do magic I couldn't believe my eyes, you were just two years old and desperate for a cookie - chocolate chip, I do believe. We used to make them to take on your play dates. You held your arm out from your high chair as if you knew that if you just tried hard enough it would come to you, and to my shock it did. For years I believed that I had imagined it, I reasoned that I was overtired from the combination of the move and from my new job. The move... If only we had just stayed in Australia... But no, I cannot think like that.

When you were seven a friend's son broke your favourite doll. You were so upset, and I was so angry. Your father promised to fix it, and he certainly gave it his best shot, but alas, he was no master craftsman and you could clearly see the glue holding her pretty porcelain face together. I remember you buried your face into her hair and then there was this soft yellow light. You jumped back in shock, we all did, I think, but when our eyes fell upon the doll it was as if we had just brought her.

Your father and I couldn't explain it, but you seemed to accept it, just happy that your doll was unharmed again. I wish people could be fixed so easily.

We didn't know what to do about what was happening, or if we could do anything. We did some research, but nothing panned out, just dozens of charlatans armed with cheap tricks and false assurances - I do wonder what they thought of us?. What you did was no cheap trick, and so it seemed that nobody could help us.

We loved you, both regardless and because. In the end it just became something else that made you special. You left your diary on a train and the next day it was back in your room. Our cat, Minty (a black cat proved to be quite the fitting choice, did it not?) fell from a bookcase and on the way down she was frozen in mid air just long enough for you to catch her. Once when I read to you, we realised that we had neglected the hot chocolate and it had gone stone cold (we both loved hot chocolate), and as I moved to heat it up in the microwave, suddenly there was no longer a need.

You turned a hideous puke coloured sweater, blue, blue being your favourite colour. Do you remember the blue themed birthday party we held that year? Some of my favourite photos of you were taken at that party. You wore a beautiful blue dress with matching blue shoes, all the food was blue, including the cake, of course, and the party games all had a blue twist.

You excelled in school, just like your father and I. We never had to worry about misbehaviour, we never had to worry about what you were up to, or what you were doing. Those blessed eleven years were the best of my life.

Then came the knock on the door. It was the week before your eleventh birthday, and we could never have guessed who was on the other side. She was a tall, severe-looking woman wearing a tartan dress suit - surprising, but not overly so. We were initially confused as to the reason of her visit, but soon with an explanation, and proof, our confusion turned to joy. We were delighted to finally have a reason for your abilities and even more so to find out that there were other children like you.

Looking back on it, I can't help but wonder why she didn't tell us. Did we not deserve to know that this wondrous world of magic which seemed so promising was filled with such horror and pain? Did we not deserve to know that this world that you were entering would not accept you, would not value you, and could kill you, in the end? I do not know if it was because she just didn't think it was important, or because that world needed people like you for something - population growth or different skills perhaps? What would we have done if she had told us? What would you have wanted at that age? I think you would have wanted to go anyway.

You had won a scholarship to Broxley Academy, which specialised in Mathematics. It was off the table as soon as we heard about Hogwarts, of course. Learning magic, we decided, had to give you a better future than learning maths. But I wonder if you would have been happy there? Would it have seemed as if something were missing? Would you have spent your entire life wishing you had gone to Hogwarts or would you have lived to see the amazing future you should have had?. I don't know, I will never know.

Getting your school supplies was certainly an adventure, the things we saw! We received a few funny looks, but I just assumed they were given because of how we stared at things that must have seemed so ordinary to them.

You got a long eared owl as a pet and named it Boofy - a magnificent, but funny looking creature. You were worried that you wouldn't be able to contact us, and I admit that we were worried too. It meant that you couldn't take Minty, but I think she would have disliked the change is scenery anyway, she was getting on a bit even then.

Waving goodbye to you on the platform felt like, and was, the end of an era. We had not planned to send you away to school and thus were extremely unprepared when it happened. I couldn't sleep the first night for worrying, and I know your father was the same. Years later and I still can't get used to how quiet the house is or having just two people at the table.

You sent us an owl the following night and I was relieved, despite telling myself I was not worried. You had so much to tell us I was surprised the owl could carry the letter. I was so proud when you got sorted into Ravenclaw because I recalled that the professor had described it the house that the intellectual students were sorted into. The qualities needed for that house included intelligence, wit, wisdom and individuality, and didn't that just suit you so perfect?

We received so many letters that year, and it gave us such joy to read every single one. The earlier letters were a little hard to read as you were getting the hang of writing with a quill, but like with everything else, you soon picked that up and developed handwriting I was jealous of. You spoke of the spells you were learning, the classes you had, the friends you were making and of the many fascinating differences between our world and yours... theirs. You spoke of feasts, of a sleepover in the great hall that included the entire school, of terrifying creatures, of the regal blue common room and ghosts that looked like smoke.

When you returned home you were so happy and full of stories. We commiserated that you would not be able to show us what you learned until you were of age, and we made a list of the spells you wanted us to see when you were. We updated that list every year, and it is still pinned to the fridge. I cannot bear to remove it.

In your second year, your letters were filled with tales of an exciting tournament where four older students, some from different schools competed against various tasks. You thought it so heroic, and gushed over the contestants every move. I worried about how safe this tournament was, as from your descriptions it did not sound so. When you got home we expected to hear everything about the winner - I cannot recall their name - and the results all summer, but you were strangely tight lipped about it. At the time I thought that your favourite had done badly, but now I wonder what really happened.

In your third year, your letters became fewer. You mostly told us of a horrible teacher, of a secret club and of your new classes - you sent page after page on the magical creatures you encountered in your new favourite class. I wonder if you would have had a career dealing with magical creatures if you had had the chance? I wonder if such a career existed in the first place. You said that one of your friends had dropped out of Hogwarts due to their parents political difference, and that you missed her.

You came back quieter that year, more reserved. You had scars on the back of your hand, writing that said "I must speak only when spoken to". You told us that another student, a bully, had cursed you on the train home, and that you would get it fixed when you got back to school.

You seemed happier in fourth year, you started to enjoy Potions, a class which you had previously complained about in many a letter. You made some new friends in other 'houses' and you managed to get a high score in Herbology, a class which you had been struggling with since first year. I remember how proud you were, and how proud you made us.

You came home cheerful and smiling, but you looked worried when you thought we weren't looking. You received far more owls that summer than you usually did, but we just assumed as you moved through the school you became more connected and thus received more communication. Your father and I were distracted by the terrorists that were attacking London. I regret not prying more.

You were fifteen when you vanished, just entering your fifth year. We didn't realise it at first. You sent us one letter, a little later than normal, telling us you were having a great time, and that your studies were going brilliantly. You didn't give as many details as usual, but we figured given that your first wizarding qualifications were to take place that year, you were busy studying. We never got another letter from you. I wonder what happened to your owl?

From what they told us, we assume you didn't go back to school, we assume that you were captured later on and sentenced to prison. We don't know what happened in prison, or how you died. We pray that it did not hurt and that you did not suffer, but that is something else we will never know.

Your funeral was beautiful, but I hardly remember any of it and I barely got through my speech before I started crying again. You were always better at public speaking than I was, and I wonder how you would have fared if it had been the other way around? It certainly should have been. We had to lie about how you died and where your friends were, but we are used to lying about your life by now. We mostly had blue agapanthus, hydrangeas and delphiniums mixed in with white blooms and avalanche roses - you would have loved them. I lay Hepatica Nobilis (your favourite flower) on your grave. We visit every week on Sundays to replace them. You might say we are being foolish, but replenishing the flowers makes me feel like I am still taking care of you somehow.

People say that you have to live with the choices that you make, and while that is true, and there is nothing we can do to change the outcome now, I wish we had known to choose differently.

With all my heart,

Mum


End file.
